Regrets Only by M. J. Pullen Page B

conversations.
    “Of
course,” Suzanne said, launching into the polite speech that she had recited
all morning. “I completely understand. I’m very sorry and embarrassed about
what happened. Although it was an honest mistake involving my medication,
naturally, I understand that the last thing you need when planning a major
event is for the event planner herself to be a distraction.”
    “Poor
dear,” said the woman. “I know at times like this, I always turn to my faith.”
    “Yes,
ma’am,” Suzanne responded distractedly. She appreciated the sentiment, but this
sort of platitude felt hollow coming from a virtual stranger. She was already
opening the file of her next client, when Mrs. Banks surprised her completely.
    “You
know what the Bible tells us, dear: ‘For the wages of sin is death, but the
gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.’ Suzanne, do you believe
in Jesus?”
    Seriously?
Today?
    Suzanne
had no idea what to say. Yes? No? I don’t know? She had never understood why
some people, who would never dare ask whether you colored your hair or had your
teeth whitened, were perfectly comfortable asking total strangers about their
deepest religious beliefs and the state of their souls.
    Thinking
quickly, she dropped her can of pencils on the concrete floor. It had the
desired effect of a loud clang and scattering sound. “Oh, my! Chad, are you
okay?” she called. Chad rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid we’ve had a little
accident here at the office, Mrs. Banks. Thank you so much for your kindness
and we’ll be in touch.”
    She
hung up and put her forehead on the desk. Suzanne barely recognized herself.
Six weeks ago she had been at the top. She knew basically everyone in Atlanta,
and there wasn’t a major party or charity event that she didn’t either plan or
attend. She’d dated professional athletes, been the president of the Atlanta
Junior League. She’d played tennis with Elton John, for heaven’s sake.
    Now
she was a social pariah with a broken arm, faking clumsy accidents to avoid
talking to people. Not that any mishap would be unbelievable after the past
week. “I’m like the Mr. Bean of party planning,” she said out loud.
    Chad
laughed sardonically. “Except that there’s a chance he’ll be working this year.”
    She
flinched. Normally she prided herself on being able to handle his little jibes,
but not today.
    “God,
Suzanne, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”
    “Don’t
worry about it,” she said. “You’re right.”
    He
shuffled papers for a moment, and then ventured softly, “You okay?”
    “No,”
she said truthfully. “But I have to be. Right?”
    He
nodded and went back to his desk to sort through bid sheets from the silent
auction. One silver lining of Suzanne’s semi-nude encounter with the reflecting
pool was that people attending the event had stayed much later than
anticipated, buzzing about what they’d seen and trying to get themselves
interviewed by the media. In a fantastic display of leadership under pressure,
Chad had enough foresight to keep the bar open and extend the silent auction
for thirty extra minutes, during which many of the high bids on the auction
items had doubled. Financially, at least, the event had been far more
successful than anyone could’ve hoped.
    Whether
Dylan Burke and his people would see it that way, however, was another matter.
Every time the phone rang, Suzanne expected it to be Yvette, bringing the ax
down. So far, however, the hottest thing in country music was one of only three
clients from whom they had not heard a word. Maybe Yvette was having an
attorney draft a letter instead of contacting her personally. The thought gave
Suzanne heartburn.
    #
    She
and Chad worked silently into the afternoon and all the next day, writing the
usual thank-you notes and filing receipts, just as they always did. A few stray
calls came in here and there, but they had talked to most of their clients
except Dylan, and a